


(can't) let you go

by peachboyf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:27:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachboyf/pseuds/peachboyf
Summary: the tiniest stab at azicrowenjoy





	(can't) let you go

**Author's Note:**

> the tiniest stab at azicrow
> 
> enjoy

It feels good to be himself again.

There’s something strange about the sensation of knowing you are yourself, but not to everyone else. Almost like there’s an emptiness left behind, just the tiniest bit of nothing where the disconnect carves its own home. Crowley loves Aziraphale, but he isn’t much for _being_ him. No matter how good he might be at it.

Crowley rolls his head on his neck, gazing at Aziraphale in the early morning light. Or is it afternoon light? It must be a little after noon, at least a quarter if not more. Crowley doesn’t care either way as he focuses on the sun’s rays lighting pale hair. It looks like fresh snow, and though Crowley hates snow, he likes the color. He likes it because it’s on Aziraphale, and he’s predictable like that. Aziraphale’s eyelashes are that same frosted white, framing dark eyes in a way that makes them bottomless. Like the darkness behind his eyelids that Crowley avoids while sober, except less unsettling because they’re filled with the warmth of his angel. (_Heaven’s light, some might call it._) Crowley enjoys the darkness as he does with most things that are linked to Aziraphale, save Heaven and God, herself. But that’s a given.

Aziraphale's hand is pleasant in Crowley's, cool compared to himself but warm compared to what angels usually are. His palm is soft, but the tips of his fingers have calluses. Built from flipping page after page through book after book. Crowley turns their hands over, slow and sweet, thumb dragging along the knuckle of his angel’s pointer finger. Aziraphale’s finger twitches before he squeezes Crowley’s hand tight. They’ve never held on this long, they’ve both more than settled in their own forms again.

But Crowley won’t let go, and Aziraphale can’t make him.


End file.
